


31 Fragments

by hedgiecanadia



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-09-18 10:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16993638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgiecanadia/pseuds/hedgiecanadia
Summary: 31 pieces, the smallest pieces. 31 fragments of many lives, all loosely bound together. A collection from a 31 prompt set of multiple characters. Character tags will update as each prompt piece is posted.





	1. 1. Angel(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt one is angels, and what better one to talk about but Angel himself? a piece of when Angel and Cross first met, before the relationship, the kids, and hell and a half.

It doesn’t happen overnight. Not even many nights. How many particles a body needs it takes time, even when it’s time you’re using. It takes so much yet so little. Reverse the effect of thunder, the sound of space suddenly being taken up and existence becoming actual. The alley shakes with the effort and he collapses to the ground. Everything is so stationary. But it’s not still, just a snail’s pace. It takes him a long moment to adjust. A moment, what a thing to actually experience!

His knees sting where they impact and pain registers for the first time. He’s felt something similar but it feels like a haze of a dream in comparison to how  _ sharp _ the world is. The man looks around, the hard buildings and garbage, metals bins near point of overflowing. It’s quiet however, beyond the roar of the street up ahead and aways back. His entry has disturbed grime and garbage but nothing else. The world continues on, times crawls and no one notices. He looks at his hands, flexing them to feel the muscles moves and see how this mortal body works. Everything feels so compressed like he’s less than an eighth of himself, heavy and clumsy as the new man staggers to standing. The world is so much bigger than himself when he steps out onto the street into the sounds and sights that are so cold it’s almost overwhelming. He turns, watching people go by, drowning in the sheer sound of so many people and the cars and the lights and everything. He stumbles, reaches out the make everything slow for a moment so he can regain his bearings.

The snail’s pace continues unbudging.

He’s taken for an even longer moment, realizing this is what he’s left with, hands running through his dark brown hair. To feel it pass him but unable for it to listen to his ideas. He understands for the first time ever, the anger he’s felt aimed towards the flow and its inevitability.  _ This _ is what mortals feel. Overwhelmed, out of control. But he’s getting distracted, he has something to do. The new man lets the sea of people sweep him up and take him on.

However long ago she was here. Or she will be. Which it is isn’t exactly important, he has to find her regardless. If not here, elsewhere. While it may not listen he can still feel it, can sense its path and everything else, finding something old shouldn't be hard.

Except there's eight million distractions. Old and new overlapping, built upon each other in a race to see what outlasts. Stuff left to rot, repaired, replaced entirely. But beyond the old under new there's something in the city even older than itself. When he crosses the street he finally feels it. Old, out of place, yet new. Existing out of time yet so much a part of it. He pushes through the crowd, desperate to keep the tail. She's going fast, at least as fast as she can. He cut's across the street, jolting and narrowly avoiding the cars. Somewhere up ahead he sees her dart around the corner, closely pursued by about five other individuals. His brows knot together.

Today then.

He knows their end goal. Trap her in a corner, get her until she can't stand anymore. Whittle down her resolve until she's no issue. When they have her they'll take her from time again. He's going to stop it.

The new man takes as much cover as possible, tries to line up with the right place. This new alleyway is smaller, only enough space for one person at a time to move between the concrete buildings. It's entrance is hidden behind construction supplies, no wonder she wasn't able to see it. But he can see her.

Cross is a woman with her sights on more than just surviving. But it's the lot she has, and one he's seen for so much incredible and horrible time. It's not her fault, its half the fault of the five Ephins agents spread out on the closed street. This street dead ends and Cross is practically backed against it. Her head swivels as she tries to find an exit or route her plan of attack.

“No use running anymore kid.” One of the Ephins step forward. “There’s no getting out of this.” Cross backs up further. The Ephin sighs, motioning to her cohorts. “You think you can take us kid? Don’t see that damn Light anywhere to save you, not that he’s good at it.” She sneers, eyeing the leg Cross is limping on.

“You leave  _ him _ out of this.” Cross snaps, shuffling her weight. Her fingers flex, wisping black mass clinging to her palms and fingers. A few of the Ephins look at each other.

He watches from the alley. What exactly was he going to do? What are his limitations? He’s so used to not getting involved he’s not sure exactly how it.

“Try not to hurt her too much, the Miss wants her intact.” The main Ephin orders, pulling a knife from her pocket.

Cross shifts her weight again and lunges, swinging her arms hard. The black mass snaps into form in time for the hammer to make contact with the closest Ephin to her with a sickening  _ CRACK _ as bone gives way. The agent goes down with a choked scream. She’s too slow however; the mix of Cross’ heavy weapon and the ache of her leg restricts her turn as another Ephin plows into her.

It won’t take long. The new man bolts from the alley, eyes set on Cross’ assailant. His foot collides with their side and they wheeze, rolling off her to get away from another kick with his boot. His appearance has surprised everyone, especially Cross as he helps her to her feet with a gentle smile. She seems to be trying to place his face, as if she’s forgotten something important and he has some sort of answer for her. The man turns to the Ephins and frowns. On her own Cross was out numbered, but with someone at her side she has more even odds.

“And who are you?” The leader growls. Cross glances at her rescuer. He shrugs. The name he has, he’s not sure it applies anymore. It probably belongs to someone else now that he thinks about it. It makes him feel smaller. The Ephin’s lip curls.

“Screw it, orders still stand.”

Cross bounces back as another agent tries to attack, stumbling slightly on her bad leg. Her rescuer winds up a punch across the Ephin’s face and Cross follows up. They double over from the swing of Cross’ hammer to their stomach, coughing and sputtering. The lead Ephin jumps forward, knife slashing the air between her and Cross’ rescuer. He dodges her, mild panic gripping him when he can’t move fast enough. His arm starts to sting and well with blood at where the Ephin nicks him, her face victorious at how his own twists in fear. He’s starting to realize against the Ephins he’s slightly at a disadvantage. Cross has a weapon but he doesn’t, and his movements are so much slower than what he’s used to. None of this was wise, he should have just-

Cross’ hammer impacts with the lead Ephin’s arm, the knife spinning wildly away as her arm snaps under the impact. The Ephin shrieks, backing up and cradling the arm to her body as one of her cohorts pulls something out from his belt. Registration takes a bit, but the sun glints off the metallic surface of the gun just as the Ephin pulls the trigger. Cross move quickly, though she probably never would have made it in time. He sees her out of the corner of his eye and the gun, and the panic is enough. There’s nothing that desperation can’t do.

The bullet never hits. He finally has a grip on the snail’s pace in his panic, the high energy enough to tap into it and understand how it works. A small pocket is more than small enough for him to manage, to make the snail’s pace slow to a halt. The Ephins still standing look on with wide eyes at the bullet suspended in midair less than a foot from Cross and her rescuer. He’s just able to drag Cross out of the way when the Ephin on the ground springs up to attack. The air snaps, pressure enough to make ears pop, and the Ephin sinks back to the ground unmoving.

He grabs Cross and runs for the alleyway. Hand to hand the two of them could possible win, but a gun is another thing entirely. And with how much his arm hurts from just a knife he’s not sure he can handle a gunshot. There’s a fair distance between the two of them and the remaining Ephins but he’s worried. He doesn’t have much energy left, much less Cross, who’s starting to fall behind. The constant movements are straining, he can tell that much from her face.

He motions Cross around the corner. The Ephins may be gutsy but to fire and fight in a crowded street is too much for even them. If they’re looking for a pay raise -or simply to survive- bringing attention to themselves would just get the agents killed. Cross ducks into the crowd and her rescuer follows suit. They blend easily, both of them unassuming in their own way. He takes Cross’ hand as they glance back and notice the Ephins are lost behind them.

A few more blocks of turns and they lose sight of the Ephins completely. Cross glances back and sighs relief.

“Thanks God,” she breathes, “that was too close. Thank you.” She looks up at him. The smile she gives makes him want to melt into the ground. His new heart hammers in his chest as he smiles back.

“So what’s the name of my guardian angel?” Cross asks as they keep walking. He frowns gently, shakes his head and shrugs. Cross looks back at him.

“Can.. you not speak?”

He shakes his head.

“Oh. Shoot.”

He thinks for a moment, then snaps his fingers. He points at Cross encouragingly then makes a motion with his fingers as if to back up. Cross squints at his pantomime, trying to understand.

“Uh…” she watches as he points at himself then at her. He makes a line as if making a space. “Your name?”

He nods. He points back at Cross and makes the same rewinding motion before he mimics a moving mouth with his hand.

“I… already said it?”

He nods eagerly. Cross frowns.

“I said… guardian angel.”

He brings his forefinger and thumb together. Holds up one finger then shakes it in a straight line. Cross thinks, mouthing something to herself, going over her words.

“...Angel? Your name is Angel.”

Hearing her say it feels so right. It’s a good name he thinks. Even better is she partially gave it to him. He nods excitedly. Cross’ face breaks into a wide grin.

“Alright, thank you Angel. I’m Cross.”


	2. 2. Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today is Hunger with KJ, a deaf vampire who happens to get themself in a lot of trouble
> 
> content warning: overly flowery prose surrounding blood

Five days. They were told to wait, he’d be back later. KJ scrunches their face and peers out the window, careful not to let the sunlight in. Was he actually coming back?

KJ gnaws their cheek, wondering exactly what they’re going to do. If the man that let them in wasn’t going to come back should they leave? Or wait a few more days? Except they have a feeling they can't wait. Their mouth feels dry, as if they’ve been gargling dand for five days straight. Something deep in KJ’s core shifts painfully, a hole clawing and gnawing it a way that KJ vaguely remembers. Their jaw hurts, or rather their teeth, and the ache is enough that KJ wants to bite their own hand to make it stop.

They get up and pace the small apartment anxiously. It’s honestly a mess, both lived in but barely inhabited. KJ kicks a book on the floor, watching it skitter away under the couch they’ve been sleeping on. The floor rumbles ever so often, from a passing truck or something in the building they’re not sure. Leaving during the day isn’t an option regardless of if the man comes back or not. KJ looks at the clock. The sun won't go down for another three hours. Frustration mounting KJ kicks more debris out of their path, acid burning down their throat. Why did they agree to come here? At this point they can’t remember, the clawing at their core is all KJ can focus on. The air in their lungs rushes out in a sigh.

Next door, through the walls, something sings to KJ’s nose. Brilliance, like liquid jewels, and heavy enough they can nearly taste it on their tongue. The ache in KJ’s jaw intensifies with burning fire to a point they physically can’t keep their mouth closed. It hurts to breathe, it comes out in puffs and KJ realizes they’re  _ drooling _ at the smell. They have no clue what has happened, but it feels as if their birthday has come early. Practically possessed KJ opens the front door a peak, careful to avoid sunlight and any passerby in the apartment. They make their way next door, hands fidgeting together, nearly shaking every step they take.

KJ's closed fist collides with the wood heavily, hoping the person inside can hear. The door opens slowly and a particularly rough man stands there, holding his hand. Through the bandages red already wells. Must have cut himself cooking, or something. Regardless KJ is transfixed.

The man's lips move slowly, confused by the raggedy person at his door. KJ isn't paying attention to make out the words, their vision going grey.

The pit opens. It's all consuming, no longer in KJ's core but taking over all they are. Jaw aches, thick air tinted metallic rushes in and KJ pounces. They don't care, they can't wait another moment. Liquid rubies it must be, or the thing those of divine nature sustain themselves with. It's gold, wealth, life itself. It pulses through everything except for them. The taste is like holding a missed love one, desperate not to have them leave again and completely obsessed. The hole fills, sloshing amidst the vibrations of the man's screaming. KJ’s jaw aches less the more it spills against their tongue, heavy, metallic. Life itself.

Half of their mind reminds them to save some to take it back to the others. But they can't, the hole has yet to be filled and it refuses to move until such time. It would be too hard anyhow, trying to move in the midday and get out of the apartment with the bloody mess.

KJ sloshes as they stagger out if the apartment. They wipe their mouth until no more crimson is left on their face. They have to leave now, no mind the man they were waiting on or the sun.

KJ covers their head with their hoodie and slips out of the apartment building, moving from shady patch to shady patch. Move quickly, put distance between them and the apartment. No one saw, no one ran. But KJ freezes at the sight of red and blue lights that whiz pass, back the way they came. KJ picks up the pace and disappears into the city.


	3. 3. Horses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the third prompt horses took a bit of a backseat to everything else going on here, whoops. this time we have Lazarus, a small time gang leader on vacation with he ragtag gang of weirdos. he's a hiding cyborg with a strange past his gang vaguely knows about  
> Ace and Dallas: two nonbinary pals who use they/them  
> Gwen and Harley: the ladies of the gang, she/her  
> and Laz and Kev: he/him for both

“Boss why are we out in the middle of nowhere?” 

The wind is whipping so hard that Laz can barely hear Ace’s voice. He turns back, getting a face full of his own fiery locks before he brushes them aside. The road stretches ever on back for miles, nothing in sight except for Laz and his gang walking on the dirt side of the road, bags in tow. None of them look happy, walking for over and hour will do that to anyone.

“Vacation! Vacation calls for a change of scenery, which is the middle of nowhere.” Laz calls back, shuffling his bag on his shoulder. The majority of the group frowns back at him. “Don’t look at me, Kev should have made sure we didn’t get a shit car!”

“It’s not my fault it broke down!” Kevin objects, the stamp of his foot billowing a dust cloud that immediately gets swept away by the wind.

“How much farther is the place boss?” Dallas asks. Back to the wind Laz lights his cigarette and takes a long drag before looking over the fields surrounding the road on both sides. The place looks pretty much the same from here, but almost all absolute no-wheres look the same. And how much can change, nature wise? Laz turns back forward and squints into the distance.

“Not much farther? About thirty minutes?” He shouts over his shoulder. The gusts carry the gangs’ groans over the hills.

Laz is known for his overly spontaneous decisions. Forethought isn’t his speciality and it shows on the daily. The idea for vacation came out of nowhere, a passing thought he decided the rest of the gang had to be in on. They were all so use to the towering city and jumpy at every single person they run into that at the time it made sense to everyone to go to a small town. Laz knew the place apparently, and it seemed like a good idea. Everything seems like a good idea when you have a working car that isn’t sputtering on the side of the road who knows how many miles back.

“Let’s go on vacation, he said. It’ll be fun, he said.” Gwen grumbles, swinging her bag to whack Laz on the back. He stumbles and narrows his eye, raising an eyebrow.

“Come on, it’s seriously just ahead.” Laz says pass his cigarette and points. Up ahead a sign that looks like it’s been there for years stands, a proud weathered thing with big bold letters spelling out Derry pronounces their destination. They aren’t actually there yet, it’s just the town’s outer edges but the sign’s presence picks up the gang’s spirits. Laz’s stomach twists uncomfortably despite it. For a quick moment he isn’t sure this is a good idea. It passes, there’s no one who could even recognize him.

“Weird name.” Harley muses, her face puckering. With everyone finally within arms length of one another it's easier to hear what anyone’s saying over the wind. Laz chuckles and exhales smoke. It curls around him for a moment before it shoots skyward with the wind. 

“‘pparently Cornwall was too boring.” Laz mutters. The town has changed. Years upon years will do that. What was a small settlement of farmers and priests has blossomed into a small thoroughfare town big enough to warrant four storey buildings. The farms still exist, bordering Derry with far extending fields marked by hardy fences, crops bowing in the wind. It’s going to be harvest time soon, with all the browns and golden hues of leaves and dying grass. Hazy memory picks at Laz’s brain of watching farmer in their fields. Everything looks different, apart from the white church with it’s thin spiked steeple that tries to pierce the sky. Laz can see it’s grey shingles over the more modern brick and concrete buildings. He didn’t miss it.

“Hey there’s a garage over there, we can see if they have a pick up truck for the van.” Kevin jerks a thumb to the right at a building that wafts of gasoline. The pull doors are open, with a coverall draped person bending over an open truck.

“We should probably see if they know where the place we’re staying at is.” Gwen adds, “Gods know if Laz even knows where that is.”

“I  _ do _ .” Laz says matter of factly, brushing out his skirt. Wearing the heeled boots was a mistake, his feet are aching something fierce, and Portsmouth Estate is another fifteen minute walk. Laz looks over gang and takes a deep breath. “The place is just a… bit up the road. Need a show of hands who’s hungry  _ now _ and whether we should get something to eat.”

Dallas and Harley’s hands shoot into the air, Ace tentatively following suit. Kevin mentions they should really get someone to grab the van, but doesn’t care as to when he eats. Gwen looks at the rest of them and raises her hand. Laz puffs around his cigarette. “Alright, Kev’s got a point, we should get the van. Ace, Kev, go ask ‘em if they have a pick up. The rest of us will find food, we’ll most likely be in the first place you go into.” Laz adds to Ace and Kevin as the two of them head for the garage.

Small towns always have cheap dinners. It’s the one thing Laz has come to love. The one the gang comes across is no exception of welcoming with the smell of grease and bold coffee. The hostess gives them all a look, a ragtag bunch with dust stains and lugging various sized luggage on their person. Gwen narrows her eyes when the hostess gives Laz the longest look. The hostess quickly leaves as everyone sprawls out on the benches.

“Coffee?” The waitress asks the table when she arrives, holding a large pot. There’s nearly unanimous agreement; Laz flips over two mugs for Ace and Kevin when they return. “So what bring’s y’all to Derry?” She asks as she fills mugs.

“Just vacation.” Dallas gives her a wide grin and a small wink. Gwen kicks their shin under the table.

“Laz said this place used to be called Cornwall?” Harley asks, holding her empty mug with two hands. The waitress giggles a bit, careful not to spill.

“No, well I mean I guess? It hasn’t been called that since like… the eighteen hundreds?”

The gang looks at Laz as he sips his coffee, completely black.

“Laz huh?”

“Lazarus. My family likes everything old, like towns’ original names.” Laz lies over his coffee. It’s such a crap lie that even the waitress doesn’t look fully convinced. The gang is eyeing him so hard Laz can’t meet their glances. “Ah right my order-”

* * *

 

“How the hell do you get out of things by lying?” Gwen asks. The gang continue on their trek after their late lunch, the exhaustion of the day taking a toll on everyone. Dallas hangs at the back of the group with Kevin, the two muttering about whether or not they can trust the garage person with the van. 

Laz shrugs at her, fiddling with his cigarette box. Ace sweeps it out of his hand, holding it out of Laz’s reach. Laz grumbles, “Who knows? S’not like she questioned it.”

“Yeah, because why would someone  _ lie _ about that,” Gwen rolls her eyes, “Gods why do we put you in charge?”

“Because none of you suckers would have a  _ job _ that’s why. What’s the point in complaining, we didn’t get in trouble.” Laz says with a wide grin.

“We should still try and keep a low profile.”

Laz stares at her. He gestures to him entire look, fire red hair, skirt and eyepatch. He gestures to Ace, huge and hulkling. He gestures to Dallas and Kevin’s neon aesthetic. He gestures to Harley’s various tattoos and piercings. “Gwen..,. Dear.  _ We aren’t subtle _ .”

The ensuing argument is quickly cut short by thunder. Except it doesn’t rumble in the sky, but across the field pass the wooden fence the gang walks past. They stop and stare, all slightly confused. It rumbles closer, dust in the air just a little on the horizon. More hazy memory pulls at the corners of Laz’s brain, and he squints into the distance.

There’s about five of them. Coming out of the clouds of dust like it creates them from thin air. Adrenaline spikes in Laz’s stomach as he finally remembers, watching the group of horses head towards the way the gang is heading, feet roaring thunder with such force it shakes the ground. Laz drops his bag and hops onto the fence, watching in wonder as the huge animals turn, stamping and rushing by. The power of the things is a thing to behold, faster than any of the gang can run and stronger than even Ace. Their coats shine in the setting sun, all a mix of dark browns and whiter creams. Laz leans over the fence, clicking his tongue as the group slows somewhere further away. A few of their ears swivel towards him, and two darker horses raise their heads to look.

“Absolutely stunning.” Laz breathes as the two trot over, snorting and a little apprehensive at the strange man standing on their fence. He reaches out a gloved hand and pats the nose of the nearest one. It reacts a little weird, tail swishing and front hooves stomping but otherwise doesn’t move from Laz’s hand.

“Never thought you’d be a horse person boss.” Dallas whistles. Laz barely hears them, petting the horse’s nose.

“Ah you must be the folks staying with us.”

The gang turns as an older gentleman on the back of a fully tackled horse trots over. An over enthused Border Collie bounds to the fence, sniffing at them and gladly accepting pets from Harley. Laz couldn’t care less, he leans further to pet his hand down the neck of the horse in front of him.

“You own Portmouth Estate?” Gwen asks the rider, glaning with slight embarrassment at her boss nearly falling off a wooden fence over a horse.

“Yes, I’m Hal. We’re just a little more up the road here. Hopefully you all made it here without too much…. Trouble.” Hal looks over the group and sees their luggage and no car. 

“We broke down a few miles back.” Kevin informs him.

“Well I’m so sorry to hear that. Come on, we should get you to the house.”

Laz jumps off the fence and watches as the horses gallop off. Ace glances at him, face pinching together. Hal leads them all in a slow trot towards the house, telling the rest of the gang about Derry and the house.

“You alright Laz?” Ace asks, placing a hand on his shoulder. Laz tears his eyes away from the retreating horses.

“Y’know, Elizabeth loved those things.”

Ace sighs. “This wasn’t about vacation was it?”

“It is, everyone needs some get away. We can only keep going on for so long worrying that someone’s gonna arrest us Ace.” Laz looks pass Hal and the rest of the gang. “But I… also wanted to see what’s left. It’s be  _ years _ , and I never got…” Laz takes a sharp inhale of breath when he finally sees the house.

It’s not the same, there’s no way it can be. But it sits at the top of the slight slope just like the old one. The paint’s all wrong, too new, but evidently someone came along and rebuilt as close to the original as they could get. The two storey house stands surrounded by beautiful flower gardens on both sides, its windows staring out over the fields where the horses ran and Derry. A brick chimney rises straight up from the center of the house, peaking with high windows. A porch has been added to wrap around the front of the house, it’s lower half now brick instead of straight up wood. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he saw it but Laz can’t breathe now. Smoke rises from the chimney and Laz’s eyes water, the smell choking his lungs. It’s hot, and for a moment Laz feels like he’s on  _ fire _ .

“Boss.” Ace shakes him out of it. Laz grips to their arm tightly, taking a deep breath. He’s fine, nothing charred. Laz swallows and gives Ace a shaky nod to let them know he’s okay. Ace doesn’t look convinced but doesn't push further. They gently guide Laz towards the house, joining the gang and Hal at the gate to the place.

“Oh wow how  _ old _ is it?” Harley asks. Hal smiles and turns back to look at the house.

“Not… too old actually. The original practically burned down, it was rebuilt in about 1880. And we’ve been renovating it, but we try to stay close to how it looks.” Laz looks away from the old man to the fields, watching the horses wander into their stable. The burning feeling creeps up Laz’s legs, searing his mind. This was a mistake, he never should have come back.

“Burned down?” Dallas echos.

“Old houses do that. Problem with not having firefighters.” Hal says, almost too cheerfully. He notices Laz staring at the horses. “First time you ever seen a horse son?”

It takes Laz a moment to respond. He looks at Hal, trying to focus on him and not the house beyond him. “Uh… no. My family had two.” Laz feels like he’s choking on ash.

Elizabeth had loved both of them like they were two puppies. Their father didn’t approve much, chiding her that they would get fat if she kept feeding them treats. Laz wouldn’t say anything, instead distracting their father by asking about his work so Elizabeth could coo over the huge creatures undisturbed. She used to laugh so loud when Laz put her in front of him as they rode, making the horse go so fast they would tear through Cornwall kicking up dust behind them. The miller’s son would always tell on them, and Laz would do it again no matter how much it stung.

Laz stands at the gate, staring towards the house as the gang leaves to find their rooms. The gate has pieces of the original, but they’re nearly rotten away. He doesn’t want to step forward, doesn’t want to see the inside. He fears to smell the smoke, the smell of burning wood and flesh. The crackle of fire and embers. 

He tries to imagine Elizabeth, standing in his place, staring at the house. What went through her mind? Did she not register what was happening? She must of. He saw the fear in her eyes, so wide and lit by the flames. The way she screamed as the other girl dragged her away and Laz’s own screams were choked by smoke.

Laz thought the house would have answers. That if he stands in the place she stood he would understand something he didn’t when he was burning in the house with the rest of his family. Why Elizabeth wasn’t there. Who set the house on fire. Who locked them in and let them burn. Who wanted to kill his family but not Elizabeth. Who the girl that dragged her away was. Ace stands at the door, staring back at Laz sadly.

“Come on boss, there’s no use.” They beg. Laz flexes his right arm, feeling the whir of the machinery and quiet hum. He focuses on it, the sliding pieces as he bends it at the elbow, the rotating disks as his fingers move. The physical to remind him he’s here and not then.

“You’re right.” Laz sighs and takes the steps.


	4. 4. Candy Wrapper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> four prompt is candy wrapper, and I'm liking the back story stuff so far, so here's Tracy's first meeting with the imfamous Miss, who he ends up working for
> 
> content warning: mentions of child abuse and a bit more gore

The car door swings open and the man in the suit, the one who introduced himself as Ples, gestures to for him to get in.

“Mr Wright.”

Tracy hates being called Mr. Wright. It reminds him of his father, of hiding in his room and weathering storms of screams. His face in rage, spit practically flying. But a new image comes to Tracy's mind, his father on the floor, finally unmoving, finally no longer swinging.

The drizzle of rain clings to Tracy's hair and face as he looks back to where Ples found him. Ples had done the same, the adults who were bothering Tracy all collapse in the street. Were they police? The same type of people who would always come to his house asking questions about his parents that Tracy's mother talked of with venom dripping from her voice? Tracy barely knew death a month and already had seen over five bodies. He frowns and looks back to Ples and the car. Ples lifts an eyebrow at the boy, but otherwise waits patiently. 

Tracy climbs up into the car.

There's another kid in the car that's shaped weird. Tracy remembers the shape from shows on the TV but can barely remember what it's called. The other kid looks at him with wild eyes, but the kid isn't scared. He looks… oddly excited. 

“Is this him?” the kid asks Ples as he gets in and shuts the door. Tracy pulls his hoodie up and scoots away from both Ples and the kid that looks like he wants to  _ eat _ Tracy.

“It is. Tracy, Apprentice,” Ples flourishes his long fingers to the kid who's grin widens dangerously, “Apprentice, Tracy.” 

“Apprentice?” Tracy raises an eyebrow. 

“Yup.” Apprentice sits back, offering no other explanation and flashes an even wider tooth filled smile. It makes Tracy's skin crawl. Further, the mass of smoke like substance that sharpens and fractures in Apprentice’s hand. It looks like the stuff Tracy can move and touch, but the one in Apprentice's hand is volatile, rejecting and trying to lose control.

Tracy's grandma told him that it was Darkness. The reason why Tracy can control it was because he was also made of the same stuff, compressed and shrouded in human form. ‘We call them Darks,’ she had told him over her tea, ‘and I think they call themselves that too.’

Apprentice isn't a Dark, Tracy gets no sense of familiarity from the other boy. And if the Darkness isn't taking well to him, there's no way he and Tracy are the same. Tracy fidgets in his seat. Ples’ cold eyes slid over to him, a short staccato sound coming from the back of Ples’ throat as he turns his attention to Apprentice. He scolds Apprentice and the Darkness dissipates from his hands. The ride continues in silence, city giving way pass the foggy windows into trees and forest. 

The car winds up a path and the forest finally gives way to a house bigger than the apartment Tracy used to live in. Manicured lawns stretch to the left and right and the front driveway curls back into itself around a overly large fountain. The mansion towers, elegant and fortress like in its white stone, accented by dark wood and a large set of black doors standing nearly twice Ples’ height. People stalk the lawns and near the door, as well as the overly large wrote iron gate the car had gone through. They look similar to Ples, overly dressed in Tracy's eyes and trying to look as if their banks were bursting. The car rounds parallel to the front door and a woman dressed in the same black and green colours as the others opens the door for Ples to get out. Apprentice bounds out of the car after him and the two wait for Tracy to exit. 

“How is she?” Ples asks the woman, falling into step with her as they cross to the stairs. Apprentice and Tracy tag along behind.

“Getting a little impatient, sir. But in a good mood.” the woman reports and glances to look at Tracy. Her eyebrows come together.

"Good.” Ples says in a tone that sure doesn't sound good. He's stoic, no more emotion than elegance, if you could call it an emotion. He embodies it, as if the air of superiority is the only thing he has for himself. The large black doors open for them and shut with such a noise Tracy flinches.

The inside is as rich as the outside. Lush rugs and furniture in the same deep greens try to offset the harsh white and black stone and wood architecture. It's overwhelming to Tracy, and makes him feel even smaller than he is. Rich people don't like him, they look down their nose and sneer, or worse, give him a look of pity and delight that they can be  _ charitable _ . Ples leads the group up the large grand staircase and the woman parts on the middle of the landing to go to the right as they go left. Apprentice marches surely after Ples, face lit up in delight and that same wild look that makes Tracy's skin crawl. 

Ples pushes open another large door and gestures Tracy inside. He hesitates for a moment and trudges in, watching Apprentice’s grinning face and wave disappear as the door closes. The room is smaller than everything Tracy has seen so far, he nearly thought that big and huge was the idea for the whole place. There is something big and large in the study, a fireplace that blazes and throws yellow light over the chair placed in front of it and half the room. A large clock ticks away, counting time and playing duet to a crinkling noise that comes from the chair. Ples ushers Tracy closer to the chair then takes a step back.

“He's here.” Ples announces. She sits forward from the chair.

For a split moment Tracy thinks he's older than her. The way the fire casts its light makes her face seem softer. Her long blond hair is pulled back from her face, gently braided and spilling over her shoulder. She smiles softly, but her grey eyes pierce him painfully, as if she's studying a extra special specimen. Beyond her outfit, an intricate dress of sorts, she's actually quite forgettable. A pit opens up in Tracy's stomach.

“Ah,  _ Tracy _ .” A shiver runs down his spine the way she says his name, “It's nice to meet you finally.” Her hands move and the crinkling sings again. Tracy sees the small piece of wrapped candy in her hands, and the bowl that sits near her chair. 

He doesn't say anything. The… Tracy stares at her face and realizes he can't tell what age she is. She looks both young yet old, but without the wrinkles and hardened face of adults. She stares back with such intensity he looks away. Her smile becomes amused as she motions a hand the bowl of candy.

“Please, have some.” She says. Tracy hesitates for a moment. 

Something is screaming in his head that something is horribly wrong. He should have never gotten into the car, never entered the house. He quells it, he knows the way out the door and out of the mansion. Plus, he hasn't had anything sweet in months. Tracy takes an unsure step forward and reaches out for the bowl. Nothing happens, beyond her eyes piercing him as he swipes a candy from the bowl. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. 

“I'm the Miss.” she introduces herself. The Miss stops when Tracy makes a face and she tilts her head. “Is something wrong?”

“That's not a name, its a title.” Tracy mumbles. His fingers fidget on the candy, plastic wrapper crinkling as he tries to untwist it. 

“Titles quite often become names.” The Miss says matter of factly. She smoothes her dress, and glances at the fire at a moment. “Monster is both a name and a title.”

Tracy freezes. The wrapper scrapes at his thumb, the only tingling sensation to his wound body. As cold as Tracy gets, the anger comes quickly. It bursts somewhere behind his eyes and suddenly Tracy’s blood is boiling, his jaw locked. He can _feel_ _it_ roll off him, smoking like a piece of meat accidentally dropped in the barbecue. The Darkness reacts, coiling, snaking and it takes all of Tracy’s will power to still it and push it down and not react. Don’t show her that she’s right. But the Miss just smiles at him, her head tilting in the other direction.

“Humans have silly ideas they like to put on us.” She sighs longingly. Tracy squints at her.

“You’re not human?” He questions, finally revealing the candy from it’s outer plastic shell. The Miss’ smile splits wide open, teeth gleaming maliciously. She laughs, and by Ples’ off put face she evidently doesn’t make the noise often. 

“Of course not, why would you ever think that?” She sweeps up to standing, brushing her dress as it swishes after. She’s shorter than he anticipates, something about her important air and intimidating presence gives Tracy the feeling she should be physically looming over him. The way the Miss moves makes Tracy think of iceskatters, with nearly the same amount of dramatic flourish as she makes her way closer to the fire. 

Tracy pops the candy into his mouth, chewing on orange with a slight bitter taste. It’s an odd texture, half way between hard candy and the give of a chew. Tracy narrows his eyes at her. “You look like one…” Tracy says slowly, watching the Miss’ movements. She turns to him, eyes glinting.

“You know very well that looks are deceiving Tracy.” The Miss says and gives him a once over. His fists clench at his sides. The Miss gives him a stare with only the memory of any sort of emotion, mostly blank aside from the thinnest veil of sincerity. The candy cracks under the pressure of Tracy’s jaw and corner of the Miss’ lip twitches. “I don’t need to tell you Tracy that what humans think is irrelevant, you already know that. They’re silly things that tromp around and destroy everything in their path. They hate what’s stronger than them.” 

Tracy twists and folds over the empty wrapper in his hand, deep in thought. There’s so many questions. “What’s any of that got to do with me?” He asks. The Miss’ grin unwavers. 

“Because I see potential in you Tracy, not like those humans that called themselves your parents. You have the potential to be strong, to be powerful.” Something in the Miss’ eyes lights up, and her hands sweep outward. “And you want to be able to make humans suffer just as much as you have.” 

“I don’t.” Tracy wavers. Ples makes a sound and Tracy tries to turn to look at him fully. 

The Miss is at Tracy before he can properly process it, bent and cupping his face with her hands. He staggers, fear gripping him as she brushes the dark hair away from his face. Without the curtain to shade it Tracy can feel the cool touch against his face as the Darkness curls, a lazy reaction to the light that leaves a moderate ache. His left eye is made of nothing but the stuff, wisping and twisting Darkness that leaves him like gentle steam. If Apprentice looked like he was going eat Tracy the Miss looks worse. The thin veil of sincerity cracks, fracturing in different parts of her face that the resulting product is unsettling to look at, her teeth flashing in a void smile. Tracy tries to step back but her hands are so firm he's rooted in place, eyes darting in fear to find Ples. 

“You don't have to  _ pretend _ with us Tracy. We're not some old woman that things love will save everything.” The Miss says lowly, the sing song of her voice cracking to gravel. 

It feels like ice in Tracy's brain. She's talking about  _ someone  _ he can tell, but trying to think of who it is stabs his brain like a shock of brain freeze. Tea comes to his mind for some reason, a hot cup of peppermint with dash of honey. He hates the taste but it makes him feel calm. It was… made for him…. but by who? 

“Humans hurt us Tracy.” the Miss’ face gets closer to his, so all he can see is her wide piercing eyes in his vision. “They hurt because they don't  _ understand _ , like all animals do.” 

His parents, screaming and shrieking, words of ‘monster’ and ‘demon’. How their fists felt impacting his head or gut, the ache of pain when he tries to hide under his bed. His father, stalking towards him, knife in hand, belligerent and eyes dark with hatred and fear. The frozen fear before the fury and consuming fire of rage. 

“There's only so much we can do when we're pushed.” 

The Darkness reacts as his father steps forward faster, knife gleaming in the broken kitchen lights. It lashes out against his hand, knocking the knife away as it clatters loudly to the floor. Tracy doesn't want to hurt anymore, he's done, and that man won't even ball his fist again. Tracy snaps and the Darkness moves with his hand. The shadows of the kitchen jump, sharp and lethal and all hit their mark. They sink into the human that is Tracy's father as he shrieks in pain, cut off in gurgling as the last of it finally slices through. A human pin cushion, bloody and a mess and still  _ twitching _ . 

Tracy grabs the Miss’ hands, trying to pry them off his face. These memories were already haunting his nightmares he doesn't want to see them when he's  _ awake _ . The images sear, so vivid and sharp Tracy isn't sure if the Miss’ presence is real or not. He's aware from the moisture on his face that he's crying, his stomach lurching and threatening to get sick like he had in the kitchen. Tracy is scared, but more importantly the fire burns in his stomach, wanting to consume. 

Tracy rears his head back and slams it into the Miss’, staggering both of them as his head rings and throbs from the impact. She finally lets go, rage painting her face for a split moment before the mask slides back on and her face composes with delight. Tracy grips his ringing head, stifling the tears and gasping at the lump in his throat. He sinks to the floor, wraps his arms around himself in the hug he desperately wants. But no one here will give it, not that he wants one from any of them. The Miss moves slowly, hands brought together as she crouches in front of him.

“I can make it so no one ever does that to you again, do you hear me?” Tracy looks up at her smiling face. “You can become so strong that no human could ever hurt you. Doesn't that sound nice?” Her voice is sweet, sweeter than the candy shards still stuck in Tracy's throat. He swallows, steels his face and looks more firmly into her eyes. 

The Miss’ smile widens. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tracy is a Dark, which is a creature that can literally control the dark (shadows, shade, night) 
> 
> Darks have a Light half, and Tracy's is coming up in another prompt


	5. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> five is time, so here's a good piece with my favourite time travelling little shit Clock. they're Cross and Angel's kid and this is about one of their many mistakes

“Error….. _zzzt_ …. error…. unknown…. period.”

Clock moves stiffly. It feels like they've been hit by a truck, maybe ten. Their head is pounding and the world is spinning much too fast. Actually, it _is_ spinning.

Clock’s eyes peel open, glancing around the space they've ended up. It's empty. They're floating in a space of swirling turquoise, black and lightest blue, glittering sort of particles drifting lazily by. It stretches on forever, or maybe it's just surrounding them. Clock closes their eyes, praying to whatever deity willing to listen that it just goes away.

It's still there when they open their eyes. 

“Well… crap.” Clock croaks, voice hoarsely reverbering around them. They check the device strapped to their arm, frowning at the large spider web crack across its display. It was hell and a half to even find the proper glass for it, it was going be three full hells to replace. Clock’s muscles protest as they poke at the screen.

“ _Zzzzt_ … error.. _zzzt_ .” The TOM chirps in response. It takes it's time to respond to Clock's touch, programs stalling as they open. “Err _zzzzt_.” 

“Zzzzt.” Clock repeats sarcastically, finger stabbing harder as if it will quicken the TOM's sensitivity. The statistics page finally cracks onto the display.

It's bad. There was probably eight different corruptions from the computer overworking and overheating and its actual sensors were going haywire. Clock sighs with frustration and looks around again, trying to righten themself in the space.

“Last coordinates.” Clock commands. The TOM doesn't respond. “Stupid, dumb, idiot-” Clock grumbles and opens up the recorded history. It's even worse. According to the TOM they had multiple bounces forward and back in quick succession. The last recorded time was Clock's birthday, as in the actual year of birth. Clock's stomach does an Olympic worthy somersault. It's highly suggested _not_ to exist within the year of your birth, the results can be catastrophic for any sort of timeline that could possibly exist. They can see Dante's face now, pulled into disappointment and frustration over _another_ mistake.

Something shutters in the space. It vibrates like sound in water, shifting the glittering particles and colours.

 

**CLOCK DENMON**

 

Clock claps their hands over their ears at the sound. It shakes their core, rattling their teeth and making it hard to breathe. Its a voice, or millions all at once, booming and deafening. Clock's head rings and their eyes dart to find the source of the voice. There's nothing but themself and the strange place they are.

The TOM starts flashing. 

Clock panics, slapping the device’s display. It alternates from green to blue, alerts popping up in quick succession. The audio processor struggles to work, crackling and screeching it's usual warning beep. To make matters worse the TOM tries playing its audio files.

“War- _zzzt…_ energy le- _zzzzt_... too high.”

The space shifts again, the colour becoming something more akin to actual mass. Clock desperately stabs at the TOM to get it to shut up. “ _Shhhhhh_ shut up shut up.” They hiss. The TOM keeps tolling on, unable to hear Clock’s pleas and Clock was sure delighted at the fact it could actual give the warning they had programed in months ago.

Time is a fickle thing, especially when you move against what’s considered the normal flow of it. When you exist outside it time bends, it warps, cracks in places. If Travelers aren’t careful time can snag them, pull them in too many directions at once; Clock’s seen the aftermath of the unfortunate effect of where someone was nearly ripped in half. Knowing is half the way to survive it, and with Clock’s bad perception it made sense to program the TOM to pick up on the weird ways that time works. So whatever was in the distances, shifting and coming closer it wasn’t just big but also doing something to _time itself_.

Clock flips in space, suddenly not sure which way is up. They scramble, flailing madly in some attempt to get away. Half their face stings, a warning throb behind their left eye as Clock tries to push the fabric of time. Travelling isn't going to work, the strain just to get it to move is too great. The mass continues to shift, coming in fast. The booming voices are saying _something_ into the space but Clock's ears ring too loudly to make out any coherent words. The sound ricochettes so hard in their skull Clock’s sure it’s going to crack open. Clock's finger stabs the TOM's face desperately.

“H- llo?”

In all the years they've known her Clock has never felt so excited to hear Dante's voice, no matter how distorted and crackling it is. The voices stop, the silence nearly as deafening.

“Dante! I need help, I-” Clock rightens again in time to see the mass directly in front of them, shining fractured blue, before it slams into them.

It knocks Clock off kilter, a force like a supersonic train that rattles their teeth and shakes Clock to their core. Clock flips and falls, engulfed in an earth shattering roar. The mass shifts and becomes more defined, rounded and numerous. Granules? As Clock rolls onto actual solid ground their hands hit the surface and slide partially. No, its sand.

“-lock? Clo-k!” Dante's voice cracks from the TOM as Clock pushes themself onto hands and knees.

They squint into the darkness, wind tearing at their clothes and hair. The space stutters and light floods Clock’s vision. The source, a large blazing sun directly overhead without heat. With light Clock now sees the sand stretches seemingly endless, but slightly curved up at every horizon they look at. The sun shifts violently to the horizon, kissing the sand for only a moment before the darkness swallows the space again. The sun returns from the same horizon point, arcing up across the sky and sails to the horizon behind Clock and disappears. In less than a minute it makes the same arc into a day cycle and back into night. At some periods it freezes, either in night or day before it slides forward or back. Clock can feel the shifting of time pulling and pushing against them like waves of an ocean. But despite its immense changes time isn't broken here. The sands shift and move, peaking worn stone before it disappears beneath again.

“Clock wher-, -en are -ou?” Clock staggers to their feet and taps the TOM’s face as if it'll fix Dante’s voice.

“I don’t know time is moving so _fast_.” Clock shouts over the wind, bringing the TOM closer to their face.

“Wh-ere? Wha- happ-enning?” Dante demands. Clock can't fully tell with the distortion but she sounds concerned.

“It’s just… sand.” Clock turns at a rumble somewhere to the right. The space freezes at dusk, a hue of purple and blue washing the swirling sand that rises up from the ground. It forms into a huge looming figure so large they could hold Clock in one hand. Clock is too frozen to move despite everything shrieking that they are in danger. Long hair spills from the figure's shoulders and they tilt their head at Clock, the sheer size of them blocking out the little light over the horizon.

The figure crouches in front of Clock with a gentle smile. While their enormous frame is terrifying Clock doesn't feel threatened by their presence. The TOM crackles again with Dante's desperate voice and they look quickly at Clock's wrist with shock. Clock tries to silence the TOM with a hand.

"Who…. who are you?" Clock finally asks, staring into their eyes that swirl like the sand and dust around them.

The figure moves their hands and Clock instinctively flinches, ready for them to come near. Except they don't, their hands twist and it doesn't take long for Clock to realize they're signing. Letters, one after another with a look of offering.

_"Morial."_

The name strikes at familiarity. Except Clock doesn't know anyone over nine feet tall made of sand for it to be familiar. Clock risks a look around the space then back at Morial.

"Those voices, was that you?" They ask, raising their voice over the wind. Morial gives them a gentle smile and nods. "So you slammed into me."

Morial looks apologetic. _"I thought it would be best for you to be on solid ground."_ They sign and give a small nod to the sand below Clock's feet.

"Where _are_ we?" Clock pushes, slapping the TOM in hopes it will mute Dante's crackling voice. Morial glances at the device on Clock's arm, squinting slightly.

_"Time."_

"I'm… sorry?" Clock's voice holds a hint of irritation topped with confusion. Morial simply nods. "Time isn't a place it's- its _time_. It's a when not a where!" Clock feels the usual frustration attributed to their own panic.

Morial looks sadly at them and makes a motion of comfort. _"Clock-"_ Clock immediately notices the sign is wrong. It's not the word clock at all, not the one used when Darla angrily asks what Clock has done with hers. It's their _name_ , the one Darla and their dad use all the time, a C that moves into a D and a quick swoop down. Mum had been the one to suggest it, a mix of Clock’s initials and the original sign.

“How do you know _my name_?” The question comes out harshly. Morial flinches at Clock’s snap and stares at them for a long while. Their face falls in apology. Clock waits as patiently as they can, fingers twitching.

 _“I know all Travellers.”_ Morial gives Clock another soft comforting smile. _“I should, I am the one that gives them the ability.”_

It’s Clock’s turn to stare, silence settling heavily on their shoulders. They realize why the name sounds familiar. Dante, going on in her long winded fashion and overly large vocabulary, trying desperately to get Clock to listen to her when she tries to teach them something. About Travellers and their origins, how they exist in the first place when Clock had prodded about it. They have existed for immemorial, Dante would say, time simply made them.

 _“You are correct, time is when. Usually.”_ Morial sweeps a hand quickly to the sand and the sun that arches overhead to sundown. _“But you,”_ they turn to Clock, eyes wide with wonder and awe, _“You made it here.”_

“What is this?” Clock asks, voice shaking. Morial gives them another soft smile and crouches further down in front of Clock. They’re still huge despite the gesture. Their lips part for a moment in a silent sigh and there’s nothing but warm pride in their face.

_“This is where time begins and ends. And you made it here, of course you did. Your father would be proud.”_

The beginning. The end. Clock looks around in disbelief. No wonder they were getting all tied up, that they can actually _feel_ time for once without having to push at it. And it rushes like a current in multiple directions. Clock looks at the TOM on their wrist and Dante’s crackling voice is still coming through in bursts. Their father. Why would Angel be proud?

“He’s a Traveller too…” Clock says quietly. A twinge of panic appears on Morial’s face and they look at the ground. They look up again finally and raise their eyebrows.

 _“You should probably answer.”_ They nod to the TOM. Clock simply shakes their wrist and groans.

“I would but it’s trashed. It… couldn’t keep up. I can barely even _hear_ her.” Clock says. Irritation flits through their thoughts again about how hard it’s going to be to fix the TOM. Who knows what kind of damage it sustained going to the _beginning of time_. Clock is still surprised they’re in one piece.

Morial shifts their weight forward and in a fluid motion comes towards Clock. They drop from their towering height, sand reforming to where they’re simply standing a foot or two taller than Clock. Clock backs up at the sudden movement, still not sure how much they trust this stranger. A stranger that, Clock realizes, had said they are time itself. Clock’s head hurts. Their body aches with the effort of Travel, their skull still stabbing pain at the sheer overwhelming nature of Morial’s voice. Morial stops a few feet from Clock and simply gives them a warm smile, hands out in offering. Clock looks down at the TOM and back to Morial.

“What do you want?”

_“I want to see.”_

Clock frowns at their vague answer. The corner of Morial’s mouth twitches into a split second amused smirk and Clock is hit with another bout of familiarity. They feel like they’ve _met_ before but can’t drag up any memory that would suggest they have. Morial stretches their fingers out and bobs their hands. Clock chews the side of their mouth and squints. Morial gives them a stern face and raises an eyebrow. Slowly Clock raises their arm, hand in a fist. They’re still not sure about this.

Morial sweeps forward slowly and gingerly holds the TOM up closer. They brush some of the cascading hair out of their face before gliding their fingers over the device. Clock keeps chewing, eyes darting from Morial to the TOM and back. Morial’s gaze flickers up to Clock. Satisfied that they’re watching, Morial turns back to the TOM. The sound of splintering glass is distant, higher, like wind chimes instead of shattering. Under their fingers the screen’s cracks snap in reverse, spiderwebs retreating under Morial’s touch. They have Clock’s captive attention as the TOM’s damage rewinds until the screen is back to how it had been with it’s few scuffs. The crackling reverts and the TOM’s warning beeps choke out. It’s still going haywire, detecting mass amounts of shifting time and screaming out in bursts as Clock can only imagine the same reverse happens to the inside electronics.

“Clock what is happening?! By the Eternals _answer me_!” Dante’s voice comes out clear and sharp without distortion. Morial’s gaze comes back up to Clock’s face and their smile brings out the lines in the corner of their eyes.

Clock is stunned. They have seen pockets of space have time stop. It takes mass amounts of energy and they only save it for desperate times. They have both seen Travellers go forward and back and have done so themself. Never have they ever seen, or known it to be possible, to localize the existence of an object and reverse effects of passing time without physically going back. In theory it should be impossible. It means constructing an alternate timeline within a time line. Or so Clock thought.

Morial brings Clock back to their present. They nod down to the TOM and Dante’s desperate demands. Clock carefully takes their arm back and pushes at the corner of the device. “Hey, yeah I’m here.” Clock says, bringing the TOM closer to their face.

“Where are you?! For the love of everything that’s right do you better not cut out again.” Dante’s tone is increasingly worried. Clock’s never heard her like this. Her concern touches them.

Clock looks to Morial. They nod. “I’m… shit you’re not going to believe this but I’m _in_ time.” Clock says carefully.

There’s silence on the other end. “Clock this is not funny.”

“I'm not being funny!” Clock pleads. “I’m at the beginning and end of time! Morial told me-”

“Excuse me.” Dante cuts them off suddenly. There’s weight to her tone, disbelief churning underneath. Morial’s face holds a sorrowful guilt. They touch Clock’s shoulder.

_“It’s time to go.”_

The sand swirls suddenly and Clock feels the push of time from all sides. The ground drops out from underneath them and Clock barely gets a cursing shout at Morial before they’re swallowed up. Bursts of turquoise, black and blue push at Clock’s eyes as they’re twisted around like water running through a drain. They tumble, struggling to get upright and hit ground with their feet and stumble forward. They catch themself on something hard and solid, barely able to stop their momentum before they slam into the surface. The churning effects of time flash pass their eyes and Clock can finally see where they’ve ended up.

Dante stares at them, pushed away from her desk and practically against the bookshelf behind her. Clock breathes deeply to center themself, shaking the lingering feeling of time swirling pass them. Dante’s office stands stark and so still in comparison to the sands they had been standing on just moments prior. Clock looks down their locked arms to the TOM. It’s screen stands still fixed, and it chirps happily at to the current time and Clock’s location. They look back up at Dante and how her mouth hangs open.

“I can’t even explain that if I tried.”


End file.
